No matter what strait or poverty you plead--if even your life should hang upon the issue--the instant I hear that there exists on earth one who calls himself Richard Devine, that instant shall your mother's shame become a public scandal.
You know me.

I keep my word.

I return in an hour, madam; let me find him gone." He passed them, upright, as if upborne by passion, strode down the garden with the vigour that anger lends, and took the road to London.
"Richard!" cried the poor mother.

"Forgive me, my son! I have ruined you." Richard Devine tossed his black hair from his brow in sudden passion of love and grief.
"Mother, dear mother, do not weep," he said.

"I am not worthy of your tears.